How it Was, and How it would Be
by wbss21
Summary: The Joker was once a boy.  And while the world around him thought him odd, he too thought exactly the same of them.  Rated M for language and acts of violence.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone. So, I thought I'd try my hand at a Joker origin story, within the Nolanverse. I know, I know. It's been done to death. But I had an interesting idea of where I'd like to take it, and even though I explored a bit of an origin in my story "Agony", I thought I could do better, and more. I don't agree with the Joker having an set origin. I think him not having one adds to the menace of the character. But nonetheless, it's fun to explore different possibilities, and I'd like to take the character through his childhood in detail, all the way up to and through him becoming an adult and, eventually, the Joker. Think of this as a bit of a character study, if I can pull that off, mixed with adventure, where the different events and his different decisions take him in life, and how those around him react to him. Anyway, here's the first chapter. I hope you enjoy it. If so, I'll continue!**

**How it Was, and How it would Be:**

**Chapter 1:**

He knew things.

About life.

About the world.

And about the people who lived there.

He could tell things about them.

He could see their insecurities, their fears… their inclinations.

He knew what would make them happy, what would make them mad.

What would make them laugh… and cry.

He'd never met a single soul whose reactions he'd been unable to accurately gauge.

He'd never met anyone who he didn't know exactly how to talk to in order to push them in whatever direction he wanted.

He always knew what to say, always knew how they'd respond.

Never once in this regard had he been caught by surprise. Not once.

When he was 5 years old, he'd been found wondering the streets of Boston, filthy and malnourished.

The people who had found him, they tried locating his parents, but they'd never been able to figure out who they were, what had happened to them or why they'd left their child to fend for himself in the back alleys of a big city.

They'd declared him an 'abandoned child' and placed him in the states adoption system.

They'd asked him what his name was, but he'd told them he didn't have one, and so they filed him under the name "John Doe", and John was the name in which everyone, from there on in, referred to him by.

The adults, in any event.

The other children addressed him as "freak" or "weirdo", or any other like-minded, derogatory term their simple minds could concoct.

See, John was quiet. Some might say shy, but John never agreed with that. He just didn't enjoy social interaction.

The adults had put it down to his past, though he never understood how they came to such a conclusion, considering they knew nothing about it. In their notes, his school instructors would label him "anti-social" and seemingly "detached".

John was exceptionally intelligent, excelling in nearly every subject of his studies. School was boring for him, and often, during class, he would drift away, escaping in to the confines of his own imagination, dreaming of things he would never speak of. He didn't listen. He didn't need to. He understood everything easily, intuitively. When they would be tested, he never studied. Never prepared. He would work out the answers to the questions right then. Science, math, literature.

When his intelligence became obvious, they moved him to more advances classes, with children older then he was.

Still, he was bored, and still without effort he handled each subject, producing straight A's in everything but physical fitness.

John was a frail boy, small even for his age, and suffering from asthma.

The other children would take advantage of this, targeting him during the hour he was made to join in the group activities of basketball, baseball, or whatever other sport they played that day. No one ever chose him for their team when dividing the class in to groups. He always was the last picked, and only ever out of necessity. Whoever was the team leader would roll their eyes and sigh in exasperation when they were caught picking last, grudgingly calling his name.

Dodge ball was their favorite. It seemed on days this was the game, the entire class would aim for him, throwing the rubber balls at him, as hard as their arms would allow. John never attempted to duck away, and he thought they were stupid for putting him "out" so early on when they so clearly enjoyed his torment. If the roles had been reversed, he thought, he would have found some way to make it last.

The adults never intervened. They would watch idly as the other students shoved John and pushed him, threw things at him, or tackled him roughly to the ground when, it had been stated several times, tackling was supposedly never allowed. They never did anything. Never tried to stop it, never would scold his assailants.

That didn't surprise John.

The adults disliked him as much as the children. He knew that. They felt threatened by him, unsure what to make of him, how to handle him. Only social expectation kept them from joining in the bullying.

They sometimes would try to embarrass him.

John always sat near the back of his classrooms, gazing out the window, the voice of the teacher and other children nothing more then background noise.

His teachers would often startle him, whapping his desk with their ruler.

He would jump, staring up at them. He could hear the other children snickering; waiting in anticipation for what they hoped would be his humiliation.

The teacher would usually say "Well, John?"

"What?" John would ask.

"The _answer_ to the _question_ John." The teacher would press. "Do you know it?"

"What's the question?" John would say.

The other children would laugh some more.

The teacher would sigh in exasperation.

"You were supposed to read the assigned chapter John. Did you even do that?"

He would shake his head, feeling no need to lie.

The teacher would usually smirk then, thinking they'd gotten him cornered.

And then they would repeat the question, completely sure he would be stumped. After all, if he hadn't done his assigned reading, surely he wouldn't know the answer.

But he always did.

He would tell it to them without any hesitation, the moment it was asked.

After a while, the teachers stopped trying.

They instead found other ways to punish him, without ever implicating themselves directly.

During the day, the orphanage would allow the children out to play, in the facilities courtyard or its back field, usually for lunch, and another half hour for recess.

John would always sit in the same place, near the fence lining the buildings perimeter, at the far end of the back field, where he hoped he would be left in peace. He always had a book with him, which he would check out from the small library they had there. His reading level was far above that of other children his age, above that of even many adults, and the librarians would often give him strange looks as he took out books on philosophy and science and math, or classic literature from the likes of Victor Hugo, Joseph Conrad, Emily Dickinson and the like.

"Aren't you a little _young_ to be reading this?" They would usually ask.

He would just shrug and answer, "I like it."

He didn't know what age had to do with anything.

He understood everything he read, and so he saw nothing odd about it.

It hadn't taken long, however, for him to be spotted, sitting in his corner of the field, and when he was, those who had seen him would almost always come over to harass him.

"Well, if it isn't our favorite freak." An older boy began, joined by three other of his friends.

John had spotted them, coming across the grass towards him, but he'd decided to ignore it, keeping his eyes on the pages of his book.

"Whatcha' got there, freak?" The older boy, who's name was Timothy, barked.

John said nothing.

Timothy's nose scrunched in disgust at being ignored and suddenly he reached down, snatching the book away.

"Lemme see that!" He hissed.

John looked up at him, annoyance flashing in his eyes.

"_Pride and Prejudice_?" Timothy scoffed. "What's that about?" He lazily flipped through the pages. "There ain't no pictures in here!"

He said it as though it were some great injustice.

"Give me back my book." John finally spoke, his voice quiet.

Timothy looked down at him, smiling.

"Naw. I don't think so." He answered.

"Please." John tried.

Timothy smiled wider.

"Why don't you come and get it, freak."

John's eyes moved to the three boys stood behind Timothy.

He knew if he did, they would only beat him up. He knew they were probably going to do that anyway.

He looked back to their leader before getting to his feet.

He turned, beginning to walk away, hoping they would just let him alone, knowing they wouldn't.

"Hey, where the fuck do you think you're going!" Timothy called after him.

He kept walking.

"Hey, _freak_, I'm talkin' to you!"

Moments later, John could hear several pairs of feet, running up behind him.

He knew he couldn't outrun them, but he tried anyway, taking off, towards the facility, hoping to find help.

Seconds in, he felt his lungs tighten in his chest and his breathing become labored.

And then he felt a hand grab hold of his dirty blonde hair and pull back, throwing him to the ground.

He hadn't even made it 20 feet.

In the next instant, he saw Timothy's face, hovering over him, that same, smug look in place.

"Pick em' up." He said. "Hold em' for me."

Several sets of hands grabbed hold of John's wiry arms, lifting him up so that now he was standing, held in place, looking up at the older boy.

"I don't like being ignored." Timothy stated. "Especially by a loser like you."

"If I'm a loser, then why do you care if I pay attention to you?" John asked back.

Timothy's face twisted in to a scowl.

"Shut up!" He raged, slapping his hand hard across the smaller boy's cheek.

It stung, but John didn't make a sound.

"You'll only talk when I tell you to, got it!"

John remained silent.

"Got it!" He slapped him again.

Still John said nothing.

"Oh, this little shit!" Timothy sounded almost amused. "Can you believe this freak?" He asked, looking around to his friends.

A chorus of chuckles erupted around.

"Guess we're gonna have to teach him a few manners." He said, looking back to John, cracking his knuckles in a fist.

John felt a hand bury itself in his hair, a moment later his head wrenched backwards.

"Ya hear that, maggot?" One of the other boys whispered against his ear. "We're gonna have some fun now."

They took turns beating him, Timothy going more then once. By the time they were through, recess was over, and they left him there on the ground, curled in on himself, his arms wrapped tightly around his bruised and battered torso.

They'd punched him repeatedly in the face and stomach, then let him go, knowing he would collapse. When he did, they took their shoes to him, kicking him hard across the back and stomach, a few times across his temple.

Half way through, his asthma had kicked in full gear, and he chocked and gasped, sucking sharply with each blow, unable to really breath.

Before leaving, Timothy had turned back to look over his shoulder at him.

"Tell anyone we did this…" He warned. "And we'll fuckin' kill you."

When finally they were out of sight, John sat up slowly, wincing in pain. Reaching to his back pocket, he hoped his inhaler hadn't been broken, and was relieved to find it intact. He shook it before placing it in his mouth, pressing down on the top, breathing in hard and holding his breath for as long as he was able.

Gingerly he pushed himself to his feet. The pain was immense, and he knew without even looking that his body would be covered in deep bruising.

Lifting his hand to his lips, he pulled his fingers away to see them covered in blood. It was quickly after this he felt something warm tricking down his temple, on to his cheek, and reaching up with his other hand, he found a large gash across his hairline, bleeding, along with the blood coming from his nose.

He limped all the way back to the facility, a good hundred and fifty yards away.

When he finally reached it, stepping inside, he was met by one of the case workers there, a woman in her late 30s by the name of Sue.

Her eyes went wide upon seeing him.

"John!" She said in horror. "What in God's name happened to you?"

He shrugged.

"Nothing." He answered. "I got beat up."

"I can see that." Sue said. "Who did this to you?"

John recalled Timothy's threat, though it didn't bother him. They'd beaten him harder because he hadn't given them the reaction they wanted. They wanted him to cry. But he hadn't done that.

"Timothy Strutten and some other boys." He said.

Sue had gone on about how that was unacceptable and that she was going to 'see about this', she said.

John knew though that nothing would come of it.

The adults there didn't like him. Whatever side of the story Timothy and his gang came up with, they would believe over him, only because it made them feel better.

They were questioned, and claimed that John had started it. They said John had insulted them, and even after telling him to stop, he wouldn't, so they beat him up. They said they were sorry, that they knew better, but that the younger boy had just kept pushing until they snapped. They asserted their supposed belief that it was some elaborate scheme on his part, to get them all in trouble.

The adults had bought it, and so nothing happened.

John knew, then, it was only a matter of time before Timothy and his gang would come after him again.

That day came, scarcely a week later, again during a recess break.

John wasn't scared. He didn't know why. He knew he should have been. But fear was something he wasn't sure he'd ever felt in his young life. He couldn't recall ever having felt it, except maybe… well, except when he'd been left alone by them. He wasn't sure if that was fear he'd felt, or uncertainty. But maybe that was the same thing. The line between the two, after all, was so thin.

When he'd gone to check out more books from the library, they wouldn't let him, sighting the fact that he hadn't yet returned all his previous outs. He'd tried to explain to the librarian that "Pride and Prejudice" had been stolen from him, but they didn't listen.

So he had no more books now, and instead sat in the lush grass, fingering the fine blades between his fingers, wondering at its texture.

At some point, a lady bug had been spotted, and he stared at the thing with great interest, almost mesmerized by the way it moved, the colors it sported. He'd bent down to look closer, scrutinizing its face.

This time, he hadn't even heard Timothy or his friends.

"You're dead freak!"

He looked up, startled, and before he even really had a chance to react to what he saw, he'd been kicked in the face, laid out on his back.

White exploded before his eyes and a sharp stinging enveloped his nose, blood pouring from it. The sky spun in dizzying circles and seconds later, he felts a pair of hands grab tight to his shirt, lifting him up and smashing him hard against the chain link fence.

Timothy's enraged face filled his vision.

"I warned you bitch!" He spit. "But you just couldn't listen, could ya?"

John's expression remained unmoved.

"Why do you care?" He asked, his head still spinning. "You didn't get in trouble anyway."

"You just don't learn, do ya?" Timothy said. "You must be fuckin' stupid."

John only stared back at him, his expression cold and blank, before he was pulled from the fence and swung round, tossed harshly to the ground, at the feet of the others.

One of them reached down, fisting their hand in his hair, pulling hard and up, the rest taking hold of his arms once more.

Timothy stalked towards him.

"You're gonna cry for me, faggot." He breathed in a harsh whisper, against his ear.

From there, they proceeded to beat him, worse then they had before, and for longer.

By the time they were finished, John hadn't been able to move, his face a mask of crimson, his body in incredible pain. His head pounded and his breathing came in short, rapid gasps, trying to suck air.

"Look at him." Timothy noted with disgust in his voice. "The fuckin' freak. It doesn't matter what you do."

He bent down, taking John's hair in his hand, jerking his head up.

"Why won't you _cry_!" He spit.

John couldn't answer, even if he wanted to.

He breathing became more shallow. He had to take his inhaler now, or he was going to suffocate.

He reached for it, even as Timothy still gripped his hair, trying to pull it from his pocket.

His hands shook with the effort.

"What's this!" Timothy couldn't contain the sudden glee in his voice, watching as John attempted to bring the inhaler to his lips.

He reached out, snatching it from the younger boy's hand.

"Look at this boy's!" He laughed, tossing it to them.

"What the hell is it?" One of them asked, confused, looking at it as though it were some foreign object.

"The freak's got asthma." Timothy explained, giggling. "Look at him!"

They all stared at John as his breathing became more labored, sucking sharply, trying desperately to get air to his lungs. Short, shallow gasps escaped his throat and he eyes had gone wide.

"M-maybe we should give it to him Tim." One of the boys said nervously. "He don't look like he can breath."

Timothy smirked.

"He's got to say the magic word first." He said, gripping his hair harder. "What's the magic word, faggot?"

John didn't answer, only emitting a strangled, high pitched hiccupping noise from his throat.

"Tim… Tim, I don't like this man." The same boy began. "We… we should give it back."

Timothy dropped John then, turning towards his friend.

"Give me that!" He spit, grabbing the inhaler from his hands.

He looked at it for a moment, as though contemplating it.

And then he looked to the boy on the ground, and smiled.

"You want it?" He asked.

John was on his hands and knees now, doubled over, his face strained with the effort of trying to breath.

"Go and get it!" Timothy hissed, and suddenly he reared his arm back, throwing the inhaler as far from them as he could, across the field.

John had watched it fly. He saw where it landed.

"Tim, man, that ain't right. He might die man."

Timothy turned again to the other boy.

"Shut up!" He raged, sticking his finger in his face. "Unless, of course, you wanna help the freak. In which case, you won't have no one to protect you. You a fag or somethin' Tommy?"

"N-no!" The boy insisted.

"You wanna help this queer?"

"I just…"

"You do and we're comin' after you next."

Tommy said nothing after that.

Timothy smirked.

"Heh. Didn't think so."

He took one last look at John, writhing on the ground, his breathing becoming weaker by the moment.

"Let's go." He said, swinging his arm forward to indicate their direction.

Tommy hesitated, glancing at John.

"You comin' Tommy!" He heard Timothy's voice scream back at him.

He flinched before turning, striding away to join his friends.

John couldn't breath. He was getting no air to his lungs. The world was spinning before his eyes and he was certain, in another, few minutes, he would pass out.

His eyes trained on the spot where his inhaler had landed, a hundred feet away, maybe.

If he didn't reach it, he was going to die.

"_Okay_," He thought to himself. "_Go get it_."

He was calm. Mentally, anyway. He felt no panic. No fear.

His body, however, was reacting violently to the lack of oxygen. It was beginning to convulse and weaken.

He crawled with great difficulty in the inhalers direction, progress painfully slow, his body protesting every movement, screaming in agony.

Black spots had begun to dance before his vision and it wasn't long before his thought process began to fall in to disorder.

Still, his inner voice remained calm, telling him to ignore what physically was happening, to just keep moving.

And somehow, he did.

By the time he reached the inhaler, he barely could see anymore. It had taken forever it seemed, and he felt literally on the verge of collapse.

With his hands shaking uncontrollably, he took it up, bringing it with great difficulty to his lips.

He sucked in more sharply then he even knew himself capable of. But still he couldn't breath, and so he did it again. And a third time when still he struggled.

Finally, he felt the breath returning to his lungs, taking it in so greedily that each breath came as a sharp gasp.

He remained there, on his hands and knees, for some time, sucking air, until finally he collapsed completely, rolling over, on to his back.

The sky above him seemed to still spin, and he just lay there, staring at it for what seemed forever, his chest rising and falling deeply.

After a while, he felts his lids grow heavy, and soon, he had slipped in to darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

They hadn't found him until after dark.

No one had bothered to come looking until then.

Questioning what had happened, he told them exactly as it was.

They of course then questioned Timothy and his friends, and of course, they'd again come up with some lie.

The next time he was beat up, the adults thought it best to have John moved to another facility, citing his "inability to properly socialize with other children" as the reason for the decision.

That was the second time John had witnessed what he already knew, which was that people, if it would best benefit them to do so, were quick to abandon their supposed convictions of what they considered right and wrong.

They knew full well he had nothing, actually, to do with the confrontations, but it simply was easier to place the blame on his shoulders and be rid of him completely then deal with the real root of the problem, which was the other children's inability to accept anything or anyone different from themselves.

People were hypocrites, and John hated that.

He would wonder at the point of proclaiming a belief in something, only to betray that proclamation by acting against it.

It didn't really matter though.

The next orphanage he found himself in, still within Boston, 50 miles from the other, he was met with much the same treatment. Harassment from the children, and even some adults, name calling and physical bullying.

John never did mind pain and he knew, partially so, it was the reason for the continued assaults.

The other children were confused by his seeming lack of reaction.

Whenever it was one of them who was faced with a skinned knee or a ball smashing them in the face, tears were quick to spring to their eyes and an unrestrained wail would often be ripped from their throat.

It was only logical for them to then assume John, such a small, weak looking child, would react in much the same way whenever it was they brought their fists and feet upon him.

But John never did mind pain.

Oh, he felt it as much as anyone, to be sure.

But pain, John reasoned, was a natural fact of life. Something which came with the act of living, and there really seemed no use in making a big to do of it. It just _was_, and should be easily accepted, without qualms, he thought.

After all, _other_ animals didn't cry when in pain. Why then should people?

So it puzzled and unnerved the children when they would hit him repeatedly and hard, and he never once sobbed.

The most they would ever elicit would be grunts and him sucking air sharply when punched or kicked in the stomach. He otherwise would lay there, motionless, his face a blank expression.

He felt it. And it wasn't some conscious decision on his part _not _to react as they would have.

He just never was _able_ to cry. He never was drowned in the emotion of fear and panic which he was sure caused it in others.

He never felt any emotion about it at all.

It just was.

And he easily accepted it.

And they would beat him harder then, because _they_ were scared.

By the time he was 6 months in to his 7th year on the planet, he'd been moved to 4 different facilities, and with each one, he was met, more or less, with the same treatment, the same, general attitudes, and he would feel disgust at how predictably most people's minds worked.

They were all the same.

Because of his constantly being bullied, he became somewhat adept in fighting, despite his physical fragility.

It seemed, inevitably, because of his size and seeming lack of athleticism, each time he was moved to a new orphanage, some boy made the mistake of attacking him while alone, and John would make them pay.

Of course, after that, they would smarten up, and only ever come at him in groups of 3 or more.

Those less willing to outright share their thoughts referred to John as an "unusual boy". Those smiling, saccharine-sweet acting couples who came to the orphanages, looking to fill some gaping hole in their existence with the adoption of a child.

The case workers would often show him off to these people, hoping against hope one of them might actually take him off their hands.

The reactions were always the same.

John was a handsome boy, with his thick, dark blonde hair and sleepy, brown eyes. He had fine features.

Their initial interest would almost always be peaked by his good looks.

But then they would try talking to him.

John would sit mutely, his arms crossed over his small chest. He would stare ahead, right past them, focused on some indistinct spot.

He never would answer their questions, not until he was forced to. And then he would give one word replies.

To them, he seemed sullen and withdrawn and… unusual.

His case worker would try in vain to excuse his behavior, listing off supposedly appealing qualities.

He's just a little shy, they would say, but highly intelligent. They would explain to the couples his advanced placement in every field of study and his apparent zeal for reading.

It all sounded very good, but there was something about him which always would scare them away.

This didn't surprise John. Not in the least.

He wasn't like any child they'd ever seen. He wasn't like _them_. They couldn't find any connection to him, any spark of familiarity or ability to relate. They thought he was a freak, just like the other children. Only they wouldn't say it like that. Social expectation, again.

After the couples would leave, his case workers would grow angry with him, scolding him and telling him he never was going to be adopted if he didn't at least try and present himself favorably.

He would shrug and tell them he was only being himself, and they would tell him that being himself wasn't good enough. That he had to make these people _like_ him.

That struck him as odd.

If they didn't like him, that was their problem, not his.

As it was, he had no desire to go off with any of them.

The other children tried hard to make themselves acceptable, to make themselves good enough. They wanted out, they wanted a home where they would be given special treatment and attention.

But John didn't care, one way or another. When he was ready to leave, he had no doubts that he just simply _would_.

/

When he was 9 years old, John began to experience greater difficulties.

His head was filled with noise.

So many thoughts, countless thoughts, all permeating his mind at once, he found it increasingly difficult to focus on any one thing.

He couldn't sleep anymore because of it.

He would sit awake on his bed at night, holding his head between his hands, the influx of thought making his skull ach.

After a time, it became so bad, he was lucky if he was able to sleep for even an hour. And when he could, falling back unconscious became impossible.

He would be awake the rest of the day.

His body was exhausted. He could feel the heaviness of his limbs and eyelids, his lethargy, but still, he couldn't sleep, and still his head was filled with unending notions.

What had before been routine tasks, he now had trouble completing.

His personal hygiene suffered. He would forget to bathe, to cut his nails or comb his hair, the idea to do these things swept away and drowned in the sea of thoughts which now occupied his brain.

His minders would scold him on his lack of cleanliness, and punish him, whipping him from behind with a yard stick.

But still, he would forget.

His grades as well faltered as he found it harder and harder to concentrate.

Sometimes his mind would be pulling in so many different directions, going from one idea to the next in such rapid fire succession, that he would forget to do his school work, or fill in the answers on his test sheets, often turning in nothing but blank pages.

His recollection of events from only a few years earlier began to dim. He was having difficulty remembering certain things, certain people and places, those things too becoming lost in the shuffle.

It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get his mind to shut off, to be quiet, to stop thinking and calculating, to stop gauging and estimating and _seeing_.

It all seemed disorganized and frantic, without direction or control.

Those around him noticed he seemed to withdraw more and more, until most days he would say nothing at all to anyone, more quiet then usual.

It only became worse over the months, and he began talking to himself, trying to steer the onslaught of his thoughts in some way.

The other children began to call him crazy, and somehow that caused in him agitation. The adults, apparently, thought the same, and they arranged for a psychiatrist to conduct sessions with him, to "evaluate his mental health", they said.

One session later, and John decided it was time for him to leave.

And so he did.

The next night, while everyone slept, he left the room he shared with 10 others, taking nothing with him but the cloths on his back and the shoes on his feet.

Scaling the fence was difficult. It was high, and he wasn't very strong. But eventually, after a few, failed attempts to reach the top, he did, and he hoisted himself over, clinging for only a moment before lowering himself half way down and dropping the rest of the way.

Ester Orphman's Orphanage was located 5 miles out from the main city and right now, it was dark. But John had a good sense of direction and he'd known the area's layout from looking at maps.

So, looking back over his shoulder one last time, making sure he hadn't been seen or followed, he shoved his hands in to the pockets of his pants and made his way east, towards the city, his body exhausted, the thoughts in his mind unrelenting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3:**

The doctor who'd spoken with him, Dr. Andrews, reported back that John already was showing clear signs of anti-social personality disorder, sociopathic tendencies and possible early signs of schizophrenia.

All this, of course, caused great alarm among those charged with his care and plans had immediately been set in motion, to have him transferred to St. Judith's Infirmary for the Mentally Ill.

By the time they'd come to collect him, however, he was gone.

They informed the police and then searched for him, along the orphanage grounds and out, but only by a few miles.

No one really tried too hard to find him. And though it never was said aloud, there was a sense of relief among all the adults and children that he finally was gone and out of their hair; that they no longer had to deal with the special kinds of problems he presented.

/

He'd made it to the city by sun up, heading towards Dorchester and nestling away among the back alleys of the neighborhood.

It was relatively warm, for late September, and he found piling old newspapers on to himself was sufficient in keeping him from what cold there was.

He was tired from the trek, having not slept at all since the previous day, and for only around an hour then, and so he fell asleep quickly, and stayed sleeping for nearly three hours.

When he woke, it still was morning and he found himself hungry.

Finding food, he somehow recalled, had been difficult those months he'd lived on the street before.

The thought passed through his mind that maybe he could try stealing something, but then he thought better of it.

If he was caught, they would bring him back to the orphanage. And he wasn't going back there.

So he instead settled on scavenging trashcans.

Most people would find this disgusting, he realized, but that stemmed from their fear of disease. If the food hadn't yet gone bad, it was fine to eat. And people were wasteful creatures. They threw perfectly good food away all the time.

/

For the next year, he lived fairly enough on the streets, keeping out of the sight of the authorities, and generally trying to keep out of sight period.

If anyone caught sight of a child living out there on their own, it would draw attention, and he knew he would be shuffled back in to the system then.

And that was something he didn't want.

Despite having thus far done fine, increasingly, he began to feel less and less in control, both of himself and his circumstances.

Paranoia had begun to claw its way in to his overactive brain, and he felt constantly as though he were being watched. As though everyone knew who he was, where he was; that they were looking at him, and talking about him.

Sleep continued to come sparingly, and compulsions he'd felt for as long as he could remember, which recently wasn't very long at all, were growing stronger. Where before he'd kept them in check, knowing others would deem them inappropriate and unacceptable, he lately hadn't been trying so hard, more because he simply found himself not really caring _what _anyone thought, nor what the consequences might be for his actions.

Out here, in just that year alone, he'd seen plenty of people get hurt. He'd seen how quickly situations could deteriorate when they got desperate; what little control they really had, once the illusion of safety which society provided was ripped from them.

People's hypocrisy made him sick. The way they would deny their true nature, simply to fit in, to be acceptable and feel safe, only for all pretense and posturing to fall away the moment they felt it threaten or hinder them.

He didn't understand why they couldn't just accept what they were; why they had to pretend to be something else, all the while, if believing they never would be caught, doing behind closed doors what would be frowned upon in public.

He began to think there was no point at all in following all these make believe rules.

They meant nothing, not really. They were there only to keep people safe, and to control them, and in the end, it didn't matter anyway, because no one was safe at all, and no one had any, _real_ control.

Anything could happen, at any time, and no matter what you'd done to prepare, no matter how carefully you'd planned or taken precaution, that one thing could ruin it all, in an instant. And there'd be nothing you could do about it.

There was no point, he realized, and so after a while, he stopped trying altogether, simply allowing his mind to take him any place it pleased, and doing as it said.

He found himself far less burdened then, less stressful and anxiety filled

And though he still felt as though he were being watched, he found that he really didn't care.

Let them watch, he thought. He couldn't care less.

/

When he was 13 years old, he killed for the first time.

It was in self defense.

He'd never killed before then.

He'd been out walking, late at night, when a man approached him.

The man was smiling and trying to lay some crap on him about how, at that hour, a kid his age shouldn't be out alone.

He could see right away the man was trying to pick him up.

There was an underground sex ring being run in the area. Children, mostly young boys, had begun disappearing lately, abducted off the street and sold to high paying customers for a night, or, if the customer was willing to pay more, several days even.

He'd told the man to fuck off, starting to push past him.

That's when the man had made a grab for him.

He'd felt the hand grip tight around his arm, and he didn't hesitate then.

Spinning around, reaching in to his pocket and pulling from it a switch blade he'd lifted off an older boy, it took him less then a second to flip the thing open and sink the blade in to the man's arm. The man screamed, releasing him almost immediately.

A moment later and he'd pulled the knife free before darting in and sinking it in to the man's neck. He must have hit an artery, because the man began bleeding profusely, a gurgled noise escaping his throat before he sunk to his knees and then fell over, on to his side, dead.

For a long time, he stared at the dead man in fascination, watching intently, almost mesmerized as blood seeped out on to the sidewalk, pooling in a large puddle and running over, on to the street.

He'd felt a rush of something when he'd sunk the blade in to the man's flesh, maybe it was excitement, but he thought maybe it was something more like revelation.

When he'd stabbed him, the man's eyes had been honest. Before, they'd been deceitful, radiating false, well meaning intentions.

But when the blade had buried itself in his flesh, and he realized the sudden danger, all insincerity had quickly drained away, and the man was left exposed for what he truly was, cowardly and afraid and selfish.

He'd watched the abrupt changed pass quickly through the man's expression in the last, fleeting moments of his life, and he felt captivated by it, enthralled.

This was real. This was honest. In a world where he'd been surrounded by nothing but lies, people pretending, people denying who and what they were, this was something true, something solid and substantive, something without pretense or illusion.

It was in that moment, when the man realized he was going to die, and his eyes had gone wide with fear, that the boy had felt that rush, whatever it was, and the corners of his mouth actually tugged upwards, in to a smile.

This was something he liked.

/

Not long after, the boy had discovered a means of income.

Before, he'd relied solely on pick-pocketing, something he'd gotten good at over the last year. That, or stealing food from grocery stores and scavenging it from trash bins.

But it was one night, when he'd been walking past what he'd thought was an abandoned restaurant, that he saw through a left open back door, a group of men, seated around a table, holding in their hands what looked to be playing cards.

The boy's interest had been caught, and he stopped peering in to the smoke filled room, watching and listening from the door frame as the men chatted away.

Some mumbled in obvious dissatisfaction, while others laughed and smiled broadly.

There was money on the table, separated in to piles, and every once in a while, hollering would erupt among the men and someone would reach over and pull one of the piles in to another.

The boy recognized the game as poker, though he only knew about it from the books he'd read. He'd never seen it played before, nor had he ever played it himself.

He stood there watching for a long time, fascinated with what he saw, and only was shaken from it when he heard one of the men call out.

"Hey!" He said. "What're you doin' there!"

The boy looked up and saw one of the group staring straight at him. The others quickly turned to look at him as well.

"Can I play?" He answered, not bothering to explain his presence there.

The man smirked.

"What?" He laughed. "Can you believe this kid?" He looked around at his friends.

"Go on kid. Get outta here." He looked back down to the cards in his hand, sucking on his cigar stub.

The boy ignored the order, suddenly stepping inside the room.

"I want to play." He said again.

The man looked up, clear surprise written across his face.

That surprise quickly turned to annoyance.

"Get _outta_ here kid!" He said more forcefully. "Can't ya see we're busy?"

The boy said nothing, nor did he move from the spot.

The man sighed in exasperation.

"Ain't you out past your bedtime? Ain't you got a mommy and daddy to get home to?"

The boy shook his head.

"I've got no parent's." He answered, and he wasn't even sure why he told them that.

The man looked incredulous.

"How old are you kid?"

"Old enough." He answered.

The man smirked.

"Wise ass, huh?" He chuckled. "Well sorry kid, but this here's a game for adults. You gotta have money to play."

"I have money." The boy was fast to answer.

The man's brows shot up in surprise.

"Really?" He questioned. "Well pot minimums fifty bucks. You got fifty bucks kid?"

The boy reached suddenly in to his pocket, pulling out a small wad of cash. It took him only a moment to count it.

"I have sixty." He said.

"Do you even know how to _play_?" The man sounded suddenly agitated, exasperated with his inability to get rid of the kid.

"I can learn." The boy said.

The man rolled his eyes.

"Kid, we ain't got time to teach you how to _play_. So go on, just get outta here."

"Hey, come on Mike, let em' play. He's got money. What could it hurt?" Another of the men said.

The first man looked at him with disbelief.

"You can't be serious. Tommy, give me a _break_. I'm not gonna sit here and _teach_ this kid how to play poker. 'specially when I'm winning!"

"Aw, come on. He's got money." The second man leaned in closer. "Besides…" He began in a whisper, "it's an easy 'nother sixty for us."

Mike seemed to mull it over then, glancing over at the boy, then at the cards in his hands.

He sighed.

"Alright then. Get over here kid."

The boy didn't hesitate, stepping towards them.

"Take that seat." Mike pointed lazily towards an empty chair.

The boy did as he was told, positioning himself at the table.

"You got a name kid?" Mike asked.

Everyone was staring at him expectantly.

He shook his head.

"Oh come on now kid, you must have a name. If you're gonna play with us, we gotta call you somethin'."

The boy remained silent.

Mike regarded him with skeptical eyes.

"You're a weird one, you know that?"

The boy only stared back.

"Alright, fine, you don't wanna tell us your name, that's cool. But we gotta have somethin' to call you."

The boy's eyes fell away from the man then, traveling over the table top, stopping when two cards put off to the side caught his attention.

"What's that?" He asked, gesturing towards them.

Mike looked uncertainly towards where he'd pointed.

"What?" He asked.

"Those cards." The boy said. "What are they?"

"These?" Mike took them up. "These here are joker's."

The boy's brows furrowed together.

"Why aren't you using them?" He asked.

Mike shook his head.

"We don't use no wild cards in our games." He answered. "Somthin' that beats an Ace or King? When those are supposed to be the most powerful cards in the deck?" He shook his head again. "Forget it."

The boy stared intently at the cards, and suddenly he reached his hand out, taking them from Mike, not bothering to ask if he could.

There was a man on the cards, dressed like a jester, with a white, grinning face and colorful cloths. He looked mischievous and happy.

The boy smiled.

"The wild card…" He said. "…I like that." Finally he looked up. "The Joker... That's what you can call me… Call me the Joker."


	4. Chapter 4

**Not much action happens this chapter guys, but I promise next chapter it picks up considerably. Hope you enjoy it anyway and thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed!**

**Chapter 4:**

The men all looked bemusedly at him, and he just looked back, his expression blank.

And then Mike laughed.

"You got some sense of humor on ya kid, don't ya?"

He didn't respond, continuing to stare.

Mike shrugged.

"Alright, fine. Joker it is." He smirked. "Here's how ya play."

/

Mike had explained the rules to him, speeding through it purposefully in the hopes of confusing him, praying that once he saw it was, for him, a useless endeavor, he would just give up and walk away.

"So, you understand?" He asked.

The boy gave a silent nod.

"Let's play." He said.

Mike looked at him skeptically.

Either this kid was really confident or really stupid, he thought.

Most people didn't understand the intricacies of poker and all the skill that went in to it. They assumed it mainly was a game of luck. And while luck _was_ involved, it largely was based on your ability to determine odds, and to read the actions of others.

This boy was going to lose his money, but Mike had tried to turn him away. What happened now really wasn't his problem.

/

What happened was unexpected, from all parties involved. Everyone, of course, except the boy, who simply grinned as he counted the money he'd won. All of _their_ money. Nearly $500.00 worth.

They simply sat staring at him, stunned in to silence.

When he'd finished counting the bills and stuffing them in his pockets, he looked up, pushing himself from the table and off the chair.

"Thanks for teaching me to play fella's." He said. "It's been fun."

He turned to leave when Mike called out.

"Hey, kid!"

He looked back to the man.

"You some kinda con artist or somethin'? You've played this before."

He shook his head.

"No." He answered. "Never played before tonight."

Silence hung in the air between them for a moment, and then he turned again to leave.

"Hey, wait a second!" It was Tommy this time who called for him to stop.

So again he did.

Tommy regarded him carefully.

"You tellin' the truth? You ain't never played cards before tonight?"

The boy shook his head.

Tommy nodded, as though some thought had suddenly occurred.

"Then you got a gift son." He said, pointing at him. "How'd you like to work for us?"

Mike looked at Tommy in surprise, as did the other three men.

The boy looked back skeptically.

"Just hear me out a second." Tommy put his hands up, acknowledging the odd stares, then looking back to the kid.

"Kid…"

"Joker. Call me Joker." The boy cut him off.

Tommy smirked.

"Alright. Joker. Listen. You got some kind of gift. I don't know how you did it, but you made us all look like amateurs, and I'm thinkin' you'd do the same to every other cat playin' cards 'round here. You could make a _lot _of money workin' for us. Playin' poker. If you play every night like you did tonight, there's no limit to how much we could make."

The boy looked unconvinced.

"Why work for you then when I can work for myself?" He questioned.

Tommy smiled.

"Well see, that's the thing." He began. "We got all the right connections. You think every card shark 'round here's gonna be as accommodatin' to a kid like you as we were?"

The boy said nothing in response.

Tommy shook his head.

"Right. They won't even let you play. But with us backin' you up, they won't have no choice. We'll tell em', either you play, or we ain't puttin' in."

The boy turned more fully to address the man then, seeming to study him. And for nearly half a minute, he said nothing, silently observing. Until, finally, he gave a single nod.

"Alright." He said.

And then he smiled.

/

He liked his new name. The Joker. He noticed immediately that when he was introduced as such, everyone around seemed instantly to take him more seriously, despite his age. He found this ironic, given the words meaning. But he understood that identifying yourself through something more akin to a _title_ then an actual _name_ played on people psychologically. Subconsciously they would perceive you as someone of great import, whether you were or not.

Of course, this fact was only compounded by the reputation he'd begun quickly to build among card plays all throughout the Boston area.

To say he was good would have been a grand understatement.

Tommy and Mike would bring him in to underground games, drawing both looks of confusion and amusement alike.

"What's with the kid boys?" They would jeer.

"We call him the Joker." Tommy would say.

All eyes would fall on him then.

Usually they would ask why, and then make what they thought was a clever play on words, asking if this was "some kind of joke?". Obviously though, the boy thought, it wasn't clever at all, since nearly everyone they first encountered made the same comment, almost always, word for word, verbatim.

Tommy would shake his head, saying, "Either the Joker plays, or we don't put in."

The others would usually think about it for some seconds, mulling it over, glaring at the boy, before finally shrugging, agreeing to it.

"He plays with the joker's in the deck." Tommy would then tell them.

Sometimes this drew words of protest.

But Tommy would insist, explaining that having joker's in the deck gave no one any clear cut advantage over anyone else. The odds remained the same. It still was based mostly on skill.

Finally they would agree, seeing the logic behind it.

Joker knew, because of his age, they still assumed he would be easily beaten, despite their slight puzzlement at him and his means of identification.

That was their first mistake.

He would clean them out, easily beating everyone at the table, making short nights of it, as Tommy and Mike looked on, smiling and pleased. The games would last an hour, maybe two at the most.

The men he beat would be flabbergasted, completely taken aback by what had happened.

Often times, after that, they would come back, specifically seeking the Joker out, wanting to play him again, see if they couldn't beat him. And only more money would be made.

He knew they were trying to spot him cheating. They were sure that's what it was, that was allowing this kid to so completely trounce them.

But that wasn't it.

What he was good at, what he was _really_ good at, was reading people.

And that's why he was winning.

He would watch them from across the table, watch everything about them, from the way they sat, the way they held themselves. How, even when they thought they kept a blank expression, he would easily pick up on the most minute changes, ones they remained unaware of.

Some wore sunglasses, trying to hide their eyes. But he didn't need to see their eyes. The slightest shifts in the lines of their face told him everything he needed to know. Small creases appearing at the edges of their mouths, how they would frown or smile without even knowing it. The vague wrinkling of skin along their foreheads, which direction telling him exactly what kind of hand they were holding.

People were unaware of just how _much_ they gave away, even those consciously trying to hide it.

And he was an absolute _master _of picking up on every single detail.

Whether they were lying or telling the truth was the _simplest _task for him. Child's play, he might have called it, if he weren't still a child himself.

He could tell so much _more_ about them even. He could tell what they thought about themselves, what they thought about him and everyone else in the room. And he then could gauge, with ridiculous accuracy, what their actions would be, and _reaction_s. How they would respond to any given situation.

The nature of humans was something he was more greatly aware of then others. He understood and was deeply conscious of it. Always had been. The only difference now being, he was applying that perception.

Its why, at 15, two years after he'd first started working for Tommy and Mike, when they'd gone in to play poker with a man called One-eyed Jack, within the first minute of sitting at the table, the Joker knew they were in trouble.

He could see instantly that One-eyed Jack was _seething_ with rage. Anger directed at _him_ before they'd even begun to play. And he knew the anger had come from his boys having lost _his _money to some snot-nosed brat.

The Joker motioned for Tommy to come over, and when he did, he whispered in his ear that they'd better leave now, that he could see violence was on One-eyed Jack's mind, and that the three of them wouldn't last long against him and his posse of eight.

But Tommy had just laughed and slapped him on the back, telling him to stop worrying and win them some money.

The boy tried again to warn him, but again went ignored, Tommy telling him he better play, or he'd get beat tonight.

That annoyed him a great deal.

Tommy and Mike were greedy. They seemed only to care about money. Something he himself didn't care for at all. He would let the two men keep all of whatever it was he won, taking in return what food and shelter they could provide. Money, in his eyes, was useless. And his feelings on it being so only had intensified in the two years he'd worked for them, when he realized he didn't need it even to survive. When he'd started, he thought, it might be good in obtaining things like cloths and food. But as time went on, that notion faded with the refinement of his thieving abilities, and the realization that, whatever he needed, he could easily steal.

Money could be used to persuade people, certainly, but he found no gratification from it at all, and he knew fear, and his ability to perceive deeply in to what made others tick, was a better means of manipulation even. And so much more fun.

The only reason then, for his having continued to work for Tommy and Mike, had been the thrill of the game. He loved poker, and how it offered him a means of applying his specific talents.

So when Tommy threatened to beat him that night for refusing to play, he'd grown angry, shoving back from the table and standing.

"I'm leaving." He said. "

Tommy looked shocked.

"You can't." He said. "Now sit down and _play_."

"Play yourself." The Joker shot back. "You're all going to get killed."

At this point, Mike had come over.

"What the hell's going on?" He questioned.

"Nothin'." Tommy said. And suddenly, he'd grabbed the Joker by the arm. "Sit down kid. Or I'll _make_ you sit down."

The Joker tried pulling away then.

"Let _go_." He hissed.

But Tommy held on tight, trying to force him back to the seat.

"Idiot!" The Joker spit, struggling against him. "You don't see."

In an attempt to break lose, he'd put his hands up, against Tommy's face, and pushed.

And then Tommy had lost it, rearing his own hand back and slapping the boy hard across the jaw, knocking him to the floor.

He'd moved to grab the Joker, ready to strike him again, when he'd heard a click, and then Mike's shaking voice, calling his name.

"Shoulda' listened to the kid."

Tommy looked up, and saw One-eyed Jack standing, a pistol held in his hand, trained right on him, his group of eight men the same, weapons aimed at both him and Mike.

"But then, I guess that's why he's the one playin' cards and you ain't."

The last thing both men saw was One-eyed Jack's smiling face, and hearing the crack of gunfire as they were mowed violently down.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5:**

His eyes had involuntarily squeezed tight with the first bang, and then he was hit with the sensation of warm liquid against his face, sticky and hot.

The explosion of gun fire must have lasted a good ten seconds, erupting all around him, and when at last it ceased his ears were filled with a loud ringing.

When his eyes opened, he was met with the sight of Tommy's lifeless body, lying haphazardly beside him, blood pooling beneath him, the air filled with smoke.

And it was only then he realized what had hit his face had been the man's blood.

He shifted, moving to get up, barely making it to his knees before someone's foot collided with his shoulder, laying him on his back. Quickly following and he found himself pinned down, the same foot pressing mercilessly against his chest.

"Here's how it's gonna work, Kiddo."

He gazed up, finding himself staring in to the face of One-eyed Jack.

The man was large, strong, his gun hanging lazily from one hand, his name-sake derived obviously from the fact he wore a patch over his right eye, which the Joker could only assume must be missing.

"You're either gonna work for me..." The man went on. "pay back all that _money _of mine. _Or_…" He grinned. "Me and my boys here are gonna have a little fun. That's _us_, not _you_." He pointed to himself and then back to the boy. "So what's it gonna be kid?"

His face had pulled in to a deep frown, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm not working for you." He replied coolly.

A flash of anger shown in Jack's eyes then and he reached out, grabbing hold of the boy's shirt and lifting him forcefully from the floor.

"You _sure_ 'bout that?" He hissed. "I don't think you quite understand our definition of _fun_. You think he understands our definition of _fun_ boys?" He looked around to his men, who answered atop each other no, shaking their heads and laughing.

"Yeah. Yeah, I didn't think so either." He looked back to the Joker. "One more chance kid."

The boy held a look of grim determination.

"_No_." He answered lowly.

One-eyed Jack gave a shrug.

"Have it your way son." He leaned in closer. "But you can't say I didn't _warn_ you." He whispered against his ear.

And then he raised his pistol up, bringing it down hard, ramming the butt of it against the boy's temple, knocking him cold.

/

He was woken by the shock of ice cold water being thrown in his face, and a hard slap against the cheek.

"Wakey, wakey…" He heard the voice of a man, though it sounded distant and unclear.

It took some seconds as his eyes opened for his head to clear, along with his vision, and when finally it did, he became aware first of the crowd of men around him, One-eyed Jack standing front and center, and then of the incredible stress on his shoulder joints, and then his wrists, and he realized soon following his position.

He was strung up, his arms raised above his head, his wrists shackled by a pair of cuffs, hung from a metal loop attached to a chain imbedded in the ceiling.

The stress on his shoulder joints and wrists, he quickly realized, was being caused by the fact he was suspended mid-air, his feet fully off the ground, by a foot at least, it appeared.

One-eyed Jack smiled at him.

"You been hanging there a while, kiddo." He said. "I can't imagine how much those shoulder's of yours hurt. Or your wrists."

He tsked.

"Must be bad though."

He stepped closer suddenly, looking up in to the boys face.

"Last chance to reconsider. Offer still stands. Work for me or we work you over."

The Joker glared at him, ignoring the pain, his eyes narrowed.

And then he spit in the man's face.

Jack's expression was one of shock and he stepped back, wiping his hand over his face violently, trying to clean the saliva away.

"Hh." He breathed, than lightly chuckled, shaking the spit from his hand. "You got moxie kid. I'll give you that." He looked back up to him. "But that was very _stupid_."

He reached out suddenly, taking vicious hold of the boy's jaw, jerking his head forward.

Jack studied him with scrutiny for a long moment, and the Joker stared right back, never flinching away.

"So you call yourself the Joker, eh?" He began. "Funny, I ain't heard you tell no jokes."

He pushed him away then.

"You got a handsome face, _Joker_. But see, I just can't wrap my head 'round that name. You don't never tell no jokes, don't ever _smile _even." He shrugged. "So what makes you think you're _any _kind of joker?"

The boy said nothing, his gaze fixed, unmoving, on the man.

Jack shook his head, waving a finger in the air.

"Nah. Nah. You wanna call yourself that, well kiddo, I say there's gotta be a _reason_ for it. I mean, just look at me!" He put his hands against his own chest. "I don't call myself One-eye for no _reason_!" He reached up to his eye patch then, lifting it, showing the empty socket beneath.

The boy remained unfazed.

Jack smiled.

"You think of a joker, you think of someone who laughs a lot, tells jokes. Someone who's always _smilin_'." He shook his head. "That ain't you kid. You're just way too serious."

The man folded his hands behind his back then, leaning back on his heels slightly.

"But ya know, I think we can fix that."

He went silent for a moment, as though contemplating, then nodded.

"Yeah, I think we can. Whatdya say boys?" He looked around. "Think we can fix him up? Make the name fit?"

A chorus of "yeah's" and "no problem's" erupted all around.

One-eyed looked back to the boy.

"Hear that? We're gonna fix you up _real_ good. By the time we get through with you, the name Joker'll fit like a _glove_." He laughed then.

"First thing though, we gotta prepare you. You know, soften you up a bit." He stepped forward. "What we got's planned, it's a delicate procedure." He smirked, reaching out and slapping him lightly across the cheek, almost a pat. "We wouldn't want you screwin' it up by strugglin' too hard."

For several seconds then, the man gazed at the Joker, saying nothing, and then he gave a nod, turning away and waving a hand.

"Have at em' boys. Work your magic."

/

They beat him mercilessly as he hung by his wrists, unable in any way to defend himself.

They started relatively soft, using only their fists, each man taking turns, teeing off in to his face, and then his stomach.

Gradually, they graduated to elbows, and on only the second hit, the boy felt his nose shatter.

But they grew quickly bored, and it was after that they decided weapons beyond what their bodies could provide were in store.

They had a length of metal pipe, and they wasted no time in using it to crack against his ribs.

Through it all, though with every blow he would chock out with the pain, the Joker never screamed, never sobbed or cried for them to stop.

This only spurred them on, their anger growing in their confusion, and they began to beat him harder, more viciously.

But still, he wouldn't scream.

Eventually, they undid the cuffs, letting him free fall to the floor, where he collapsed in a heap.

Moments later, and they'd grabbed him by the arms, dragging him across the floor, to the other side of whatever warehouse they were in and dumping him there.

"Get up!" One of them spit.

He didn't move.

"I _said_, get up you little shit!"

He was lying with his face pressed to the cold concrete of the floor, blood dripping on to it, steadily from his nose and mouth, mixing with the dust there.

His body felt like what he imagined it would feel like being run down by an eighteen wheeler. He wasn't sure he could move even if he wanted to.

But again they screamed at him to do so, and suddenly, their insistence struck him as humorous, and despite himself, he began to chuckle, lowly against the floor.

The men were dumbstruck by the reaction, staring wide eyed at their victim, mouths hung slightly agape.

"What… what the hell's he _laughin_' at?" One of them asked, clear shock in his voice.

"Beat's me." Another answered. "Kid's a real freak."

"Yeah, well," Another chimed in. "Let's see how funny he thinks this is."

And suddenly the boy felt a fist bury itself in his hair, roughly jerking his head up from the ground. An instant later and someone's boot connected with his face, knocking him on his back, the fist ripping out a chunk of his hair by the root as he fell backward.

The room spun in dizzying circles, his vision now limited as his eyes swelled nearly shut. And still he laughed, more intensely now, bearing blood smeared teeth, the action causing pain to rip through his sides as it jarred his broken ribs.

The men shook their heads in disbelief and disgust.

"Fuckin' freak!" One exclaimed in astonishment.

They took their boots to him then, opting simply to kick him simultaneously, in the stomach, across the back, to his ribs and head. Each hit caused him to chock out in pain, but he'd started laughing, and now he seemed unable to stop, every grunt melting in to still more hysterics, only adding to and fueling the men's anger and confusion.

Finally they gave up.

"Fuck this. Let's just give him the Glasgow and dump his ass."

One of the others rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the Joker as he almost imperceptibly shuttered with mirth on the floor, the sound coming only as a quiet wheeze.

"Kid's givin' me the creep's man." He said. "What the fuck's wrong with him? Why's he laughin'?"

"Hell if I know." Another chimed in.

"Well that ain't natural."

"He ain't gonna make it anyway. Not after the beatin' he just took."

"Alright, enough chit-chat." The first man interrupted. "Let's get One-eyed and tell him we're ready. The sooner we get rid of the freak, the better."

One of the men went then to get their boss, coming back in to the room less then a minute later, Jack striding ahead of him.

He observed the boy.

"I didn't hear no screamin'." He noted, looking around at his men as if for an answer as to why.

"He wouldn't scream boss. You can see though it wasn't for lack of tryin'. He just wouldn't do it."

Jack nodded apprehensively.

"It looks like you did one hell of a number on the kid."

He paused, bending down to look more closely.

"He's laughin'!" He remarked. "Why's he laughin'?"

One of the men shrugged.

"We don't know boss. He just started all 'a sudden and wouldn't stop."

One-eyed pursed his lips, looking quizzically at the Joker.

"Hey. Hey kid." He nudged him on the shoulder, but the boy didn't seem to respond, continuing only to chuckle quietly to himself.

Jack shook his head.

"Alright, well, he must be in shock or somethin'."

"Either that or he's crazy." One of them said.

Again Jack shook his head.

"Naw. No one's that crazy. He's in shock… Give me the switch blade." He held his hand out and a moment later felt the weapon placed in his palm.

"Either way, after this, I don't think _Joker_ here's gonna have much to laugh about. Hold him for me boys."

The men complied, moving around and lifting the boy from under his arms, holding his limp body up and pulling his head back and up by the hair.

He continued to shake with now silent laughter.

One-eyed reached out, taking hold of him by the jaw.

"Now sonny boy, this here's gonna hurt somethin' fierce." He grinned. "But we promised you we'd help you earn that name of yours. And we're men of our word, aren't we boys?"

They all agreed.

"That's right. So here we go boy. Open wide."

Jack tightened his grip painfully on the Joker's jaw, bringing his other hand up and forcing the blade in to his mouth, pushing it down so that it rested against his lower lip.

He pressed, hard, the metal edge slicing easily through the thick flesh, splitting the boys lip low.

Jack then tore the knife violently away, the action causing the blade the tear even lower.

The Joker grunted harshly with the pain, and a moment later, One-eyed had the blade back in his mouth, pressing its edge unforgiving lie against its left corner.

"Smile for me Joker." He said in a low, mean voice, grinning.

And then he pushed forward, slicing in to the edge, purposefully zigzagging the blade as he dragged it quickly and sloppily up in a curve, along the boy's cheek, almost all the way to the cheek bone, creating a grotesque, gapping wound, the flesh hanging off in tatters.

The sharpness of the pain immediately brought involuntarily tears to the boy's eyes, streaming down his face, and he cried out, the sound a kind of chocked sob, the first real sign that night that he felt what they were doing to him.

Still though, he didn't scream.

Jack grew angry, tearing the blade away and shoving it to the mouth's right corner, repeating the action more quickly, pulling the knife up in a straight line this time, digging it in deeper when he reached it's end, twirling it in a circular motion before ripping it away.

Blood poured profusely from the wounds, dripping obscenely down the Joker's mouth and jaw, covering the whole lower half of his face in a mask of crimson red.

One-eyed Jack observed with smugness as the boy slumped forward, completely drained of all strength, held up only by the men gripping him under his arms.

He barely was conscious, a slight tremor running through him, his skin ghostly pale now.

Jack's smugness quickly turned to disgust, however, when he realized he still had failed to garner the reaction he'd wanted. The boy had cried out, of course. He very obviously had _felt_ it. It very obviously had caused him immense _pain_. But he hadn't _screamed_. Jack so badly wanted to hear him scream. _Everyone_ screamed when they got a Glasgow.

But not this kid.

There was something _wrong_ with this kid.

Quickly Jack stood, absentmindedly handing the blood covered switch blade to one of his men, dusting his pants and jacket off.

"Get rid of him." He muttered, turning to leave.

"Where should be dump him boss?" One of the men asked.

"Anywhere." He replied. "Couple miles from here is fine. He won't live through the night."

He turned again and then stopped, remembering, calling over his shoulder.

"And don't forget to _strip _him. Take everything. Throw the cloths somewhere else."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

He could feel their hands on him, holding him up, lifting his limp arms over his head.

The action caused searing pain to rip through his entire body, and he chocked out.

And then he could feel them lifting the shirt he wore up and off, the chill of the room hitting his now exposed skin, intensifying the shiver already running through him.

Moments later, and he could feel their hands undoing the waste of his pants, their fingers digging in to the band.

They leaned him back, stretching him out as the slacks were pulled roughly down his hips, to his ankles, and then off entirely, soon following, the same being done with his undergarments, leaving him completely naked.

"Geez, would you look at him." One of them commented, their eyes scanning over his painfully thin and battered body.

Another of them shrugged.

"Guess he ain't been gettin' too much to eat."

Someone laughed.

"Yeah. I suppose we just helped him along to dyin' then, what with the way he obviously _ain't _been takin' care of himself."

They all just stood around a moment then, silently observing the boy as he lay there, unclothed, his breathing now shallow and harsh, his skin completely pale and covered in deep bruises and split skin, a tremor shaking through him from head to toe as he bled out profusely from the gashes in his face, the flesh hanging grotesquely down from his cheeks.

"He ain't laughin' no more." One of them noted.

"I don't think he even knows where he is." Another said. "He's delirious."

Someone nodded.

"Alright, well, lets just get this over with. Who wants to carry the little shit?"

"I'll grab him."

"Alright. I'll get his cloths. Let's go."

Seconds later, the Joker could again feel hands on him, and then arms, this time wrapping beneath his torso and lifting him up from the ground. The world spun in dizzying circles and his body hung forward limply, lifelessly.

He was hauled over a man's shoulder, that much he could tell, his arms swinging loosely from side to side and they began to move, his head doing the same.

He felt nauseas, beginning to feel bile rise up in his throat.

Moments later and he began to throw up behind the man's back.

"Oh, for fucks _sake_!" The man cursed.

"What? What is it Mickey?" Someone else asked.

"The fuck just hurled all over me man!" He spit, anger lacing his voice.

There was a sigh of annoyance.

"Well you can clean it up when we get back. Let's just go!"

A moment later, and they were outside, the winter air digging in to the boy's skin like razor blades.

There was the sound of a car trunk opening, and then the Joker felt himself being swung around and thrown down hard, in to some sort of course, hard material.

He was too dazed, the pain too consuming for him to realize where he was, even as the lid of the trunk came slamming down above him and he was shrouded in darkness.

For what seemed the longest time following, he was batted around the cramped space, his head slamming against the roof and floor of the trunk as they drove across the pot hole ridden streets.

Again he threw up, and when they finally came to a stop and the roof opened seconds later, there was an eruption of anger throughout the group of men.

"God _damn_ it." One of them spit. "In my fuckin' _car_! I don't know if I can get that smell out man!"

"Quit your bitchin'. We'll just get you a new car."

"Yeah, right. I guess so."

"Look, let's just dump him and go."

"Yeah. Good. Kid's a fuckin' freak anyway."

He felt their hands on him again, dragging him from the trunk.

"Over here." One of them said. "Right here."

He was carried a few feet before being dropped painfully on to the freezing concrete of the street.

"Little bastard." One of them hissed, and a moment later he heard them spit, the saliva hitting his face.

"He won't make it through the night." Another said. "It's supposed to hit freezin' temps later."

"His problem. Let's move."

He could hear them leaving then, their raucous laughter getting further away until he heard the opening and slamming shut of car doors, followed by the hum of an engine and tires screeching down the road.

He was alone, the only sound left that of the blowing wind and his own, labored breathing.

And for a long time, he just lay there, not moving, his body beginning to shake violently as the temperatures dropped around him.

He was going to die, they were right.

And that was okay.

He wasn't scared.

Like pain, he thought, dying was just another part of living.

So he just lied there, not moving, not trying to move. He wasn't really sure if he could even.

Hours ticked by, the night growing darker, the air growing colder, and somehow, he still was breathing.

At some point, he began to break from the fugue state he was in, his mind beginning to clear, and he started to marvel at the fact he hadn't ever completely lost consciousness.

That was rather remarkable, he thought, wondering how his body had managed to hold out like that.

And as he thought more of it, he wondered if he wasn't giving himself enough credit, wondered if maybe he _could _get up, if only he would try.

He thought maybe it was like his asthma. How it had plagued him for so long because it was in his head that he suffered from it. When he'd run away from the orphanage, and eventually run out of his inhaler, he'd had to adapt to not having it, he'd had to condition himself in to not needing it, and gradually, the asthma went away.

Maybe, he thought, he could force his body to work now. Maybe it _not_ working was all in his head.

And with that thought, he settled on it.

With incredible effort, he began to move, placing his palms flat against the ground and with violently shaking arms, he started to push himself up.

Immense pain tore through his entire frame, but he ignored it, continuing in the action until, after nearly five minutes of struggle, he managed to get to his knees.

He felt light headed and sick still as he sat there, his eyes focused on the ground below, and he noticed then stains of his own blood, marring the filth ridden pavement.

The weather was growing more bitter by the minute, and he knew he had to find some sort of shelter soon, before he froze to death.

As it was, he thought, he might very well bleed to death.

After a short while on his hands and knees, he resolved to make it to his feet.

And that he did.

After several, failed attempts, falling back to his face many times, he at last managed to stand, his legs trembling beneath his weight, his body hunched over and stiff from the injuries he'd suffered during the beating.

His arms wrapped around himself, trying in vain to shield his naked skin against the freezing air.

Glancing about, his vision unfocused, he spotted what looked to be a black tarp, abandoned in a nearby alley.

He stared at it for a good, few seconds, trying to determine if it was what he thought, before finally deciding to make for it, lurching forward unsteadily, nearly collapsing to the ground again, but somehow managing to stay upright.

His toes were completely numb as he dragged his feet across the pavement, his knees skinned and bleeding from having been thrown to the ground and sitting on them for so long, his palms the same.

It took him three times as long to cover the distance as it would have normally, but eventually he reached the tarp, gazing upon it for some moments before reaching for it with shaking hands, grasping it weakly in his frozen fingers.

It was large, and as he pulled it up, wrapping it around his shoulders and body, it easily covered his entire form.

It did little to shield him from the elements, but it would have to do, he thought.

He'd have to find shelter though.

He still was bleeding heavily, the metallic taste filling his mouth, continuing to make him sick.

Rigidly, he made his way from the alley, swaying unsteadily and weakly, holding the tarp tightly around himself.

He had no idea where he was going, just that he was looking for a place, any place he could get in to to escape the cold.

Aimlessly he wondered down the abandoned, dark streets, trying door after door, without luck, every window boarded up, keeping him from the inside. He would have picked the locks, if he'd had any tools to do so, and if his hands weren't so cold.

He'd about given up trying, ready to take his chances in an alley way trash pile, when the last door he tried, to his surprise, actually opened upon twisting the knob.

He didn't hesitate to slip inside, closing the door behind him.

Inside was dark, and cold still, though not nearly as much as the outside, and his eyes narrowed, attempting to adjust to the blackness.

It was hard for him to make out, but he thought he could see what looked like department store cloths racks, spread throughout the space.

Moving slowly forward, he reached his hand out, attempting to feel the object once he'd reached one.

Sure enough, it was a clothing rack, though empty.

He looked about, eyes going from one rack to the next. It was impossible to see if any of them held any cloths, given the dark. So he instead moved from one to the next, feeling around. Each turned up empty, until at last he gave up, sitting down in the middle of the floor, still holding the tarp, bringing his knees to his chest, curling his arms around himself and resting his head to the side atop them.

It was his first, real moment of rest that night with a clear mind. And it was the first time then he noticed the strange way the air felt along his face, how it seemed to rush in and out of his mouth, and felt colder up along his cheeks.

He ran his tongue along the side of them, and realized, suddenly, how the flesh was torn and hanging open. He could actually _push_ his tongue to the outside of his cheeks.

He reached up, touching the wounds. Curiosity got the best of him, and he pushed his fingers in to the torn flesh, feeling the sides of his teeth through the sides of his face. It was a surreal feeling, and burned terribly.

No longer moving, it only then dawned on him how completely exhausted he was. He couldn't really see, and so there was nothing to it he thought but to lie down where he was.

So he did, pulling the tarp up to his shoulders, curling in on himself as he lay on his side.

And it wasn't long before he fell in to the darkness of unconsciousness.

/

When he finally woke, the sun was filtering in through a dirtied skylight above him, on to his face.

His eyes opened slowly, squinting and then closing again all together at the invasion of light.

The first thing to hit him was the pain.

It was incredible, every last inch of him feeling beyond any kind of soreness he'd ever known.

He groaned, forcing his eyes to open and pushing himself with great difficulty to his elbows.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

He had no idea for how long he'd been out.

Glancing to the floor, he again saw his own blood, dried in to a small puddle where his face had been lying.

And he remembered the wounds.

He pushed himself up more fully, the pain intensifying, tearing through his torso, and he noticed for the first time the difficulty he was having breathing through his nose. He remembered an elbow slamming in to his face, and hearing the loud crunch.

He let his eyes scan over the area, now able to see fully.

As he'd realized during the night, the place was filled with cloths racks. It was some kind of abandoned apparel shop.

Forcing himself to his feet, he let the tarp drop to the floor, and he turned in a circle, observing the place.

His eyes lit up when they fell on a rack some 20 feet away and saw cloths hanging from it.

He made for it, and when he finally got there, he saw a pair of grey sweat pants and a sweat shirt. He didn't hesitate to grab them.

He figured there had to be a bathroom of some kind around the place, or at least a dressing room.

Whether there was running water to the building or not, he didn't know. Judging by the places condition, it didn't look like it had been abandoned for too long, though what that meant, he didn't know.

All he really wanted was a mirror, to see what they'd done to his face, though he could partially tell just from feeling it.

He looked around, noticing an ajar door near the back of the relatively large space. Looking up, he saw a sign saying "Restrooms" above it.

Bingo.

Taking the cloths, he made for it.

Through the door, there were two more, a men's and a woman's bathroom. He went for the one closest to him, pushing the entrance open.

He tried the light switch, but it didn't work, so he kicked down the door stop, allowing the light from the rest of the building to filter in.

There was a toilet inside, and a sink with a dirty mirror situated above it.

He walked to it, taking the sweatshirt he held and wiping it along the glass, cleaning it.

He was met with his reflection.

Both his eyes were swollen and bruised deep black all around, as was his nose. His skin and hair were utterly filth ridden, with scraps and cuts all along his forehead.

He'd seen already his body was covered in garish, deep black and blue bruises, running the entire length of his torso, wrapping around from his front to his back.

And then his eyes fell to the wounds, running from each of the corners of his mouth, curving up along his cheeks, the flesh hanging off and down around the gapping cuts, blood dried and caked along the whole lower half of his face and down his neck, fresh blood still seeping out.

He moved in closer, his eyes narrowing at the sight.

It looked completely repulsive.

He reached up, touching his grimy fingers to one side, feeling along the meaty texture.

He pulled the wound apart, amplifying the burning and soreness, until he could see the rows of his top and bottom teeth through the gap.

And there were so _many_ teeth.

He did the same to the other side before letting his hands drop, staring at himself intently, taking it all in.

Anyone else, he thought, would be horrified. But he found himself more fascinated by what he saw, puckering his lips and watching as the lacerations moved with the action.

And then he smiled at himself, and the cuts opened up again, exposing his teeth once more.

He relaxed his face, and then smiled a second time.

He liked that.

He liked the way it looked.

And so he did it again.

And again.

Over and over.

And then he started laughing, the sight suddenly striking him as hilarious.

A permanent grin.

One-eyed Jack hadn't been lying about helping him earn his name.

And the laugh grew, from a low rumble in his chest to an abruptly high pitched keen, not stopping for a long, long while, tears springing to his eyes as it became more intense and he found himself doubled over in his amusement, ignoring the pain which bombarded his thin frame.

Only after several minutes did his hilarity die down and he righted himself, again staring at his reflection in the glass, wiping away at the tears streaming from his eyes.

He supposed he'd better get himself cleaned up, get the wounds cleaned out and disinfected, if they weren't infected already. Then sewn up.

He thought about maybe going to a hospital, but quickly dismissed the idea.

Those bastards would have him back in the adoption system faster then he could blink.

He needed to do this on his own.

He'd read about how to stitch wounds in a medical book a few years back, though he'd never done anything like that before.

Still, he knew he could do it.

He knew of a pharmacy in the area he most hung around.

He didn't think it could be more then a few miles from where he was now.

He could easily lift everything he needed from there.

First though, he was going to have to find a way of covering up his face. He didn't want anyone noticing him.

Pulling on the sweatpants and shirt, he tried the faucet. There was no water.

So he moved back out in to the main area, walking among the clothing racks and shelves.

He was pleased to find a scarf and a pair of cheap sneakers.

He put the shoes on quickly, than wrapped the scarf over the lower half of his face.

He needed to move now, gauge his bearings, get to that drug store.


End file.
